Page 4 of Trailer Park Billionaire
In response, the jerk just grins, stands, and gives a little bow. “I apologize,” he says with annoying grace as my boss joins us. “I was just wondering why this particular statue was missing her feet.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Well, why don’t you keep wondering without touching?—”
“Mr. Lyon,” Elaine interrupts, shaking his hand before I can tell him what I think about his foot fetish disrespecting works of art older than his entire bloodline. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Elaine Hyde. And I see you’ve already met our mostdedicatedconservator, Helena Beck. Helena, this is Benedikt Lyon. The job I was talking about earlier.”
Ah, fuck.
Maybe the statue can scoot over and let me fossilize beside her.
At least he didn’t try to pee on her.
Yet.
2
HELENA
“As you can tell, she isverygood at her job.” Elaine gestures between the statue and me. “Which, today, is to give you a tour of our lovely museum, of course.”
Oh, no.
She smiles brightly, I assume mostly at the prospect of torturing me, or as she likes to call it‘getting me out of my laboratory of solitude’, which, for me, really is more of a sanctuary. It’s where I get to carefully mend layer by delicate layer, to make sure neglect, abuse, or simply the passing of time can’t do more harm than they already have. It’s also where I hide from people like him.
Naturally, this is not the first time my boss has pulled something like this. There was that one time she made me give a tour to the 13thin line to some sort of throne, who was under the impression that I was not giving him a tour, but rather entertaining him on a date. Then there was that time she had me give an impromptu lecture on 17th-century art without telling me, insisting I ‘needed to be more spontaneous’. I ended up riffing about the significance of still life while holding a half-eaten sandwich as a visual aid.
At this point, I know there’s no way out. I could protest and make us both look unprofessional, but as my (possibly paycheck-signing) boss, she has the upper hand anyway. So I quickly make peace with my fate and try to put on my best fake, well, it’s not exactly a smile but a somewhat polite expression, then I extend my hand to properly introduce myself.
“Sorry,” Mr. Lyon says, looks at me with a mischievous grin, and stuffs his own hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored pants, “I was told touching the art isnotencouraged around here.” His grin grows even more mischievous, while my hand remains frozen midair.
He did not just say that.
Does this ever work for him?
Elaine chuckles to herself and claps her palms together, causing me to snap out of it and to retract my useless hand.
“Lovely,” she says, reciprocating his smile. “Very lovely indeed. And I would love nothing more than to join the two of you but… well, frankly, I fell into a rabbit hole on YouTube this morning so now I have to catch up on actual work. Why don’t the both of you get started with our mysterious Aletheia over here,” she nods towards the statue, “and I will catch up with you in a bit, okay? It was as quick as it was nice to meet you, Mr. Lyon.”
Mr. Lyon.
I can’t help but inspect him from head to toe. He’s tall, clean-cut, the kind of handsome that looks like it was carved with purpose and precision. His clothes are an immaculate fit, and his smile the sort of thing you’d find on, not a painting in here, but a billboard outside, a smile designed to trick you into buying whatever he’s selling. And it probably works too. On most people, but I am not about to buy another thing that comes out of his mouth.
“So,” Mr. Lyon pulls me from my own thoughts, “Helena. Why is Althea missing her feet?”
This will be fine.
We’ll just do a quick walk-through. We’ll start here in the atrium, continue through the Renaissance wing, pass by the Modern Art wing, thereby leaving out the Classical Antiquity and Rococo, and finish in the special collections wing near the exit. If we hurry, he could be on the way back to his private jet in under an hour and I could get back to my actual job which, last I checked, was not indulging wealthy patrons at their whim.
At least he isn’t one of those snobs who insist we close the entire museum to the public just so they don’t have to be in proximity to the‘hoi polloi’.
“Aletheia,” I correct him, trying not to sound like one those pompous snobs myself, and clear my throat. “Well, according to myth, Prometheus sculpted the form of Truth, Aletheia, from clay before being called away. In his absence, Dolos, the cunning spirit of trickery and Prometheus’ apprentice, was left in charge of the workshop. Out of a sense of rivalry, Dolos fashioned an exact replica of Prometheus' Truth, except for the fact that, because he had run out of time, Dolos' figure had no feet.” I motion toward the bottom of the statue. “Upon return, Prometheus was amazed at the similarity of the two statues. So, he put both statues in the kiln and when they had been thoroughly baked, he infused them both with life: his own creation walked with measured steps, while her unfinished twin stood stuck in her tracks. So that forgery, the one you’re looking at, is not in fact Aletheia. She is called Mendacium or Falsehood.”
“Hm,” Mr. Lyon, who listened intently, grunts, now sporting a rather pensive look on his face. “The moral of the myth being that something that is fake can start off successfully, but with time truth will prevail.”
I nod. “You catch on quick.”Which hopefully means we can continue even quicker.
“Or maybe it just means that one’s trickery needs to be thoroughly planned, well executed, and seen through to the very end.”
“Right,” I agree, somewhat unenthusiastically, without giving it another thought. “Anyway, if you’d follow me through here…” I point the way and wait for him to move.
